Payphone
by ThatLoyalHufflepuff
Summary: Songfic to Payphone by Maroon 5. Francis messes up - again - and phones Arthur in a desperate bid to fix things. Will things ever be the same? FrUK. Apologies for the bad summary, it's better than it sounds.
1. The Apology

**A/N: A songfic based on Maroon 5's 'Payphone'. I have decided to expand on this chapter, specifically their argument. I will also make this into a longer story, perhaps of about four chapters. I decided to keep this chapter from France's POV.  
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**Disclaimer: Hetalia and the characters involved do not belong to me. Nor does the song 'Payphone'.  
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**_I'm at a payphone trying to call home, all of my change I've spent on you._**

Francis closed the door of the small, red, phone box. He picked up the phone, inserting the small coins into the change slot. He dialled the number, his hand pressing against his forehead. He waited, leaning against the wall. He gazed out of the glass opposite him, watching the steady flow of London traffic. Finally, the dial tone finished. His heart leapt. He heard the deep tone of Arthur's voice.

"Hello?"

"Arthur. Please. Listen to me, I-" Arthur interrupted him, scoffing.

"What do _you_ want? To ridicule me again? To try and get me into bed with you?" Francis could hear the annoyance in his voice, and he imagined Arthur folding his arms, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a scowl.

"No. I want to apologise. I was an idiot. I-I didn't mean any of it; I promise. I just want to be able to talk to you, without me messing up and us arguing. I'm sick of it, and I know you are too. Please." He closed his eyes tightly, praying that Arthur wouldn't scream at him again. He needed him. He had ruined a good thing so many times, and he knew he was on his final chance. He heard Arthur sigh. Silence filled the call.

"Fine. We can talk, but if you dare try and make a joke about me, or try and 'flirt' with me, I'm walking away, and I'll only ever talk to you if it's completely unavoidable. Understand?"

"Ou- Yes, I understand." Francis smiled, his face relaxing. "Oh, and Arthur? One last thing."

"What?" The annoyance had returned to the Englishman's voice.

"I love you." Francis rushed his last sentence, nervously anticipating a stream of abuse and spluttering. He bit his lip. He turned, facing the holder of the phone.

"I love you too, frog." Arthur said quietly, before hastily hanging up. Francis looked at the receiver, shocked. He stood still for a few moments. He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. He slammed the receiver back into its place, whipping his head around. He opened the door of the phone box, nodding at the stranger in acknowledgement.

He thrust his hands in his pockets, beginning to smile as he walked home. He couldn't quite believe it.

Arthur loved him back.


	2. The Argument

_****_**A/N: This is the chapter from Arthur's POV. It contains the argument, and Francis returning to the house. The italicised writing is Arthur's flashback of the argument. I hope you enjoy it, even though I don't really feel that this is my best work :/  
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**Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, nor is Payphone.  
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_**If happy ever afters did exist, I would still be holding you like this.**_

Arthur put the phone back into its holder, sighing. He was furious with Francis, but something in him made him accept the Frenchman's apology. He sat down on the sofa heavily. He stared at the ceiling, remembering the argument.

_It was last night. Francis had come back from drinking with Prussia and Spain. He had stumbled into the living room, a silly smirk on his face. _

"_Angleterre~" He called in a singsong voice, falling onto Arthur. He kissed him clumsily, his hands fumbling with the other's jumper. Arthur pushed him away, frowning. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, tasting the alcohol that Francis had drunk. He straightened his clothes, standing up._

"_Francis. You're really drunk; I'm not sleeping with you when you're in this state." He moved over to the giggling man, hauling him up. He threw Francis' arm over his shoulders, half-dragging him to their bedroom. He kicked open the door, flopping Francis down onto the bed. He yelped as he was dragged down too. Francis kissed his face again, his hands moving to Arthur's hips. They tugged on the waistband of his trousers. Arthur slapped his hands away, scrambling to his feet._

"_No."_

"_No? What do you mean 'no'?! 'Ow can you say no to me?!" Francis sat up, his face contorted with fury. Arthur's eyebrows raised in surprise at the outburst. He stepped back, fear starting to seep into his mind. He opened his mouth, about to defend himself. Francis made a noise of fury, walking over to him. He stood in front of Arthur, looking into his eyes. "Since when do you 'ave the balls to deny me? You should be lucky I even want you. Look at you. I could 'ave anyone and I chose you. Yet, you have the audacity to say no, and push me away? You, with your stupid eyebrows, stupid dress sense, stupid personality and stupid attitude. You were nothing until I got with you." Francis' upper lip curled up in a snarl, revealing his perfect teeth. Arthur's face fell momentarily, before he composed himself. He pushed the Frenchman's shoulders, anger replacing the fear. His heart pounded as he grabbed his boyfriend by the arm, pulling him out of the room. Suddenly, Arthur felt a stinging pain on the top of his spine. He turned, only to be met with Francis' fist punching him. He drew his knee up, catching Francis in a sensitive area. The taller man grunted, doubling over in pain. Arthur stormed into the hallway, dragging Francis behind him. Wordlessly, he opened the front door, forcing Francis onto the street. He slammed the door behind him. He jogged into the living room, drawing the curtains. He threw himself into his favourite armchair and pulled his legs up to his chest. He covered his face with his hands, tears falling. Francis' words replayed in his mind. _

The doorbell rang, pulling Arthur out of his thoughts. He cleared his throat, pausing. Did he really want to let this man back in? After a moment, he got to his feet. Cautiously, he crept into the hallway. Hands shaking, he unlocked the door, only opening it a crack. Green eyes met blue. He gulped, noticing how exhausted Francis looked.  
"Francis."  
"Arthur. I'm sorry."  
"You've said that already. I... I suppose you better come in." He opened the door wider, stepping back. Francis entered the house, his eyes glued to the floor. He stood in the doorway of the front room, waiting for Arthur's next instruction. The shaking Englishman closed the front door, and swept past Francis. He returned to his armchair, crossing his legs. Francis followed, sitting across the room on the sofa. He looked up at Arthur, guilt all over his face.

"Arthur. Can I ask you something?"  
"Certainly."  
"'Ow much did you 'ate me last night?" Francis voice shook, and was quieter than usual. Arthur's lips parted. He glanced over at the other, unsure of how to answer. He licked his lips slightly, thinking.  
"I... Didn't hate you. I feared you, and I didn't want you around me in case you hurt me." He spoke quietly, looking out of the window. A tense atmosphere filled the room. It was silent. After a few moments, Arthur glanced over at Francis again. He was surprised to see the man with his head in his hands, grasping his hair tightly. He frowned. His hair was a good inch shorter, and cut very messily... Something Francis only did when he was upset, or hated himself. He looked closer, and noticed Francis' shoulders trembling. He turned, rising to his feet. He quietly crossed the room, stopping next to the man. He reached out slowly, his hand coming to rest on Francis' hand. The taller man looked up, his eyes red. His eyelashes were clumped together with tears. Arthur inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his chest. He sat down next to Francis, pulling him into an embrace.

"I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean any of it. You're not stupid. You were right to kick me out. I'm surprised you even let me in." Francis choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He looked up, noticing the red mark on Arthur's cheek. He lifted his hand, rubbing it gently. His lower lip trembled, and more tears fell. He rested his head on Arthur's shoulder, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry. If I ever 'urt you again, don't take me back."

"What?"

"I said don't take me back if I 'urt you again; physically, emotionally or mentally. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve someone ruining you like I am."

"You're not hurting-"

"I am. I know I am. I hit you; I insulted you; I picked out everything that could be a flaw on you. I force myself on you, not once thinking about 'ow you feel or what you want. I don't deserve you."


	3. The Remorse

**A/N: Hi guys! Sorry about the wait! Here's chapter three, which is basically what happens when Francis gets back. I'm not entirely sure about this, and I just hope its not terrible. Reviews would make my day n_n**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor 'Payphone'  
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**You can't expect me to be fine, I don't expect you to care**

Arthur stared at the wall behind Francis, conflicted. He was still furious with Francis, and didn't want to even look at the man, but at the same time, he loved him more than anything. He hated seeing him this hurt, even if it was his own fault. He slowly moved his hand to cup the back of Francis' head, his fingers threading through the choppy locks. He must have cut it last night... Or this morning. Probably this morning, due to him being drunk out of his mind last night.

"... Don't say that. I've been equally horrible to you." Arthur's voice was quiet and unsure. In all honesty, he didn't know what he was supposed to say. He was never good at comforting; that was Francis' job. He had realised how much he relied on the Frenchman, despite their arguments and differences. He patted Francis hair softly, his eyes still fixed on the cream coloured wall behind them. Cream. Francis' choice; it went with the colour scheme of the room, apparently. Arthur didn't quite understand, but he thought it looked nice. He looked down when he heard a muffled sniff, and felt Francis' shoulders tremble. He bit his lip. When Francis cried like this, something really hurt him, enough for the outgoing man to retreat into a quiet shell.

"... Francis?" He was met with silence, and a small shake of the Frenchman's head. Arthur pulled away, holding Francis at arm's length. He looked into his piercing blue eyes, red rimmed from his crying. His face was slightly blotchy, and there were dents on his skin where his fingernails had dug in. Francis dropped his gaze, biting the inside of his lip. Arthur moved his head, catching his eye again. "Hey." He said, softly. "Don't cry... Please..."

Francis slumped back against the arm of the sofa, turning away from Arthur slightly. He shot a final glance at the mark on Arthur's face, before burying his face in his elbow. He clenched his eyes shut, his eyebrows knotting together tightly. His other hand reached up, pulling his blond hair. "I can't believe you're being nice." He spoke into the sofa, more to himself than Arthur.

Arthur leaned back, throwing a hand to his face and sighing. "Francis. Yes, you were out of order and I'm still a bit mad at you, but you were drunk and you obviously didn't mean it. So, coupled with the fact that I care about you quite a lot, I'm being nice, because I can't stand to see you like this. I've made mistakes too, you know." He patted Francis' leg, before pulling away. Francis peeked over his arm, wiping his eyes.

"Really?"  
"Yes."

Francis crawled across the sofa, slowly and carefully draping himself across Arthur. He half expected to get hit, shouted at or shoved off. None of these happened, so he hugged Arthur's waist gently. He sniffed a final time, his tears subsiding. He glanced up when he felt Arthur stroke his hair tenderly. He sighed, his shoulders falling.  
"You're so perfect, Arthur. I love you, and I'm really sorry." He lay his head on Arthur's upper arm, closing his eyes tiredly. "Is... Do you need me to do anything to make it up to you? Just tell me, and I'll do it. I promise; whatever it is." He rambled a bit, only stopping when he heard Arthur chuckle.

"The only thing I ask is that you don't get drunk like that again."

Francis nodded. "I can do that."

"Thank you."


	4. The Betrayal

**AN: Okay, this is just a little experiment. My headcanon is that Francis would **_**never, ever**_** cheat, but I wanted to play around with the storyline a little. I also doubt Arthur would be as abusive as he is in this chapter, but again it's all plot development and something to add a little drama since I thought it was getting boring. Let me know what you think! There will probably only be one or two chapters after this.**

**Warnings? Physical abuse and slurs/name calling  
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the song 'Payphone'.**

**Where have the times gone, baby, it's all wrong****  
****Where are the plans we made for two?**

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Crashes reverberated around the house, followed by shouts and screams of anger. A sickening thud; the distinct sound of a body shoved into something solid. Another scream, this time of pain, and a slight hint of fear. Hands tore into clothes, slapping and pushing. Hair was pulled, long strands pulled out and discarded on the floor. Languages mixed together, the sound of English and French colliding in the air, fighting as much as the two lovers who yelled it at each other. A hand slapped a cheek, the owner of the hand fuming with anger.

Francis' head smacked off the wall, the force of Arthur's hand slamming on his face harder than expected. He was pushed into the wall several times, pinned by his shoulders. He looked down, into the Brit's green eyes, burning with anger and fury. He swallowed, scared. Something in him screamed to fight back, but the rest of his mind overpowered it; after all, he deserved it.

He hadn't broken his promise and hit Arthur after a drunken night, oh no. He had done something worse.

He had _cheated _after a drunken night. He had slept with two people in one night, only to come back and sleep with Arthur too. He cringed, shrinking away from Arthur as he yelled, his words ones of pure anger, sometimes containing a slur or insult. Each word swam in his mind, embedding itself forever. He didn't care. He deserved it for being such an idiot.

"You stupid, _stupid_ slut! What's wrong with you?!" Arthur grabbed Francis' shoulders, slamming him into the wall again. A small voice in the back of his mind thanked the heavens that Francis was slim, otherwise he would never have this much power over him. He knew it was wrong to beat his boyfriend up, but how else could he show how hurt he was? Tears obviously didn't work. Francis had flirted with others before, but it had never gone past that. Even the flirting was bad enough, the Frenchman using words of adoration and flattery that should have been directed towards Arthur. The Englishman had always screamed at him after, breaking down into a crying mess. Francis always seemed apologetic and remorseful then, promising not to do it again. So much for promises.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as Francis groaned, holding the back of his head. He pulled him down, dropping him to the floor. After delivering a swift kick to his stomach, Arthur stormed out of the room, running upstairs and locking himself in the bathroom. He stood, panting at his reflection in the mirror, noticing how furious he looked. A few seconds passed, and his lower lip began to tremble. He dropped to his knees, his hands covering his face, trying to press back the wails that sounded from his throat. His thick eyebrows pulled together, his eyes squeezing shut against the tears that threatened to spill down his face. His fingertips scraped over his scalp, grasping the sandy blond hair. He stiffened, hearing Francis shift. Part of him felt guilty, but the hurt, anger and pure betrayal washed over him, erasing the guilt. He leaned back, his legs giving way as he slumped against the wall. He slid down, sitting with his legs splayed in front of him, allowing the tears to slide free. He sobbed, not caring if the other heard him. At first the sounds of sadness and hurt were quiet, before slowly increasing in volume. Half of him hoped Francis would hear; he wanted the Frenchman to understand how hurt he was. He wanted him to understand how wrong he was, and that he couldn't keep doing things like this. Sometimes it seemed like Francis forgot; he forgot that Arthur was rather insecure. He forgot that he even had a boyfriend sometimes, Arthur thought. The Englishman curled into a ball, pulling at his hair as he cried harder, restless thoughts swirling around his mind, screaming different possibilities at him.

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Hours had passed. Francis had barely moved, only rolling out of the doorway to beside the sofa. He didn't have the strength to stand up. Despite Arthur's slim form and delicate looks, he could hurt someone worse than anyone he knew. Francis' eyes were closed, bruises beginning to form around them. His blond hair was fanned over his face, his arms covering his face. He was stretched out, trying to ignore the aches in his stomach and legs. Every inch of him, he was sure, was bruised or cut. Not that he cared. He deserved it. He had expected it; Arthur's anger was projected through violence and words, rather than Francis', who was more manipulative. Maybe that's why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to hurt Arthur, though he didn't even know why. He had messed up before, not Arthur. He had already hurt his love; what made him do it again? He sighed, before wincing at the pain in his ribs. He tried easing his heavy eyelids open, only to give up and just lie in silence, his breathing being the only indicator that he was even alive.

All the time he had lay there, he had to listen to Arthur's broken sobbing. Each sound was like a knife, straight through his heart. All he wanted to do was scoop the other into his arms, desperately trying to win him back. Although, there was hardly much he could do. The damage was too great. He had shattered Arthur's trust in him. If it was only kissing, then maybe there would still be a chance. But no. He had to go and have meaningless sex with two strangers. That's all it was; two acts of lust. Nothing more. He hadn't wanted a relationship, nor had he wanted to hurt Arthur. He just felt like having someone that night, and obviously couldn't wait to get home to Arthur. It wasn't even like he could blame his friends for not stopping him, since they had held him back from launching himself at several other people. It wasn't their fault; it was his. He had been stupid, unfaithful and... A slut. Everyone was right, he was a slut. Francis the slut. He needed to learn to keep it in his pants. He needed to _learn_. He needed... He needed Arthur... Except, Arthur didn't need him. Arthur deserved more than him; someone to treat him right, to never hurt him, to make him feel special. Someone unlike Francis, who couldn't control his urges or keep his promises.

Francis slowly turned onto his back, pushing himself into a sitting position. He slumped forward, breathing deeply. His eyes opened, puffy slits where the azure orbs once lay. Shakily, he rose to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He moved his feet tiny amounts, taking baby steps until he reached the kitchen. He reached out, picking up a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote out a note, his trembling hand morphing his elegant script into messy scribbles. After this, he made his way into the hallway, only pausing to pick up his coat, which contained his wallet and keys in the pocket, before heading out of the front door.

It looked like he'd be spending a couple of nights around Antonio's house, waiting - hoping - that Arthur's rage would simmer down. Maybe they could fix things.


	5. The End

**AN: Final chapter! Thank you to everyone who read and followed it, and for your reviews! I hope you liked it - even though this probably isn't the ending you all hoped for~**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the song 'Payphone'.**

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_**Still stuck in that time****  
****When we called it love****  
****But even the sun sets in paradise**_

"No, Francis. No more."

They were on Arthur's doorstep, Francis begging for yet _another_ chance. Really? Did he think he deserved another? He obviously didn't care, and couldn't keep a promise. He was unfaithful and a liar. It was over. No more. Francis could do whatever he liked, with whoever he liked. It was that simple.

Wasn't it?

Arthur wasn't sure. He loved Francis with everything he had, but he couldn't keep doing this to himself. He couldn't deal with Francis eyeing people up everywhere they went. He couldn't deal with everyone flirting with him every time they went out for dinner. He couldn't deal with the worry, the fear, that Francis would get bored of him. Calling it off, stopping it now, that would help. That would solve all of their problems. The marks on Francis' beautiful face hadn't faded; another reminder of why their flawed relationship couldn't continue. They simply couldn't stay together, not when they hurt each other like that. It was obvious, logical, even.

So why was that devastated look in Francis' deep blue eyes making him want to slam their lips together and reassure him that everything would be okay? He wasn't to blame. Arthur had told him when they first got together that it wouldn't last; they were too set in their ways, their differences too intense. Sure, they had their loving moments; curled up in bed together, making jokes, watching movies, but they were overshadowed by constant arguments and fights. Their relationship was good while it lasted, but even the sun sets in paradise. Nothing lasted forever, not even the deepest of love. Francis had to see that.

"I'm sorry, love, I really am." Arthur's voice broke the silence, Francis too heartbroken to speak. He gave a weak smile, a pale hand reaching out to pat his shoulder. He started a little when Francis grabbed it, pulling him in for a tight hug. Squirming, the Englishman frowned. "Francis-"

"I understand. Shall I get my stuff now, or later...?" His voice was calm, controlled. In all honesty, he had been expecting this since the first time he messed up. Arthur was independent, able to please himself. Francis relied on the company of others for most of the time, almost needing other people to make him happy. It was one of many differences between them that tore them apart. Arthur hated how clingy Francis was, finding it overwhelming rather than endearing. Francis despised how cold Arthur was, hardly ever getting the affection he craved. In a way, you could say it led him to seek others. He would never excuse himself; it was wrong to betray Arthur's trust like that. As much as he wanted them to stay together, at least once they had parted, Arthur wouldn't be hurt again. He could go off with someone else, someone who deserved him. Wasn't there that American boy? Maybe a little young, but... It was someone. He didn't want Arthur to be alone. He wanted someone to treat him well, to give him the love he himself couldn't provide. For someone who claimed to be an expert in love, Francis had ruined their relationship.

"Now. You might as well, get it out of the way." Arthur muttered, pulling out of the hug. Francis nodded, fixing him with one final look. The Englishman avoided his gaze, stepping back into the house. He curled up on the sofa, drawing the sleeves of his jumper over his hands; a nervous habit that Francis adored. Oh, this was going to be hard. His forest green eyes watched Francis head upstairs, finding himself a couple of bags. He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar, heavy footsteps of the Frenchman as he gathered up his belongings.

Ten minutes and two suitcases full, Francis came downstairs. He had one last canvas bag left, the one he took for quick visits to France to see his family. He moved around the kitchen, stuffing cookery books things into his bag. He left one; the book on English puddings he gave Arthur for his birthday. Maybe, just maybe, he'd use it and finally learn to make something without having to call the fire brigade. Giving the room - his second favourite room in the house - a sweeping look, he turned, heading to the living room. Not even glancing at Arthur, he picked up his glasses, laptop and charger, a couple of books and his fashion magazines. Placing them in the bag, he ventured into the hallway. He took his coat down, draping it over the bag. Picking everything up, he left the house, packing it all into his car. He gave the house a fleeting glance, wondering what would happen now. He wondered if he and Arthur would ever speak again; either in court over the house or in more social situations. Would they both move on, or would one of them stay in the past?

Hurrying back inside to give the Englishman one final peck on the cheek, followed by a rushed apology and a goodbye, blinking away tears, he realised that he may never know. It was a completely clean break.

A ten year relationship, started in his final years of secondary school; he was sixteen and Arthur was thirteen - something most people found an issue with, even though they never did anything past kissing until Arthur was eighteen - had come to a close. All because of what he did when he was drunk. He swore to himself as he drove away that he'd never touch anything apart from wine again.

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The house was empty and silent. Too empty, too silent. Without the infectious laugh of the Frenchman, the smells of something baking gone, Arthur felt like someone had died. He lay on the sofa, hands over his eyes. Had he done the right thing? Of course he had. Didn't his mother teach him to look out for himself, right before she died? It wasn't his fault that Francis didn't keep his promises, the very promises he made when the Frenchman was courting him. The promises that he'd never deceive him, never hurt him. He had done both of those things. This was for the better. The love they had, that pure, untainted love, had been tarnished by fate and time, left to dissolve.

Paradise wasn't forever.


End file.
